Seeking Kaupapa and Other Stories

That being an artist is not about how grand a stage you build, but how deeply you understand the land where you plant your first pillar.

Oleh Benny Arnas

I didn’t come to Auckland to fall in love with it. Admiration is the cheapest residue of travel, and Auckland knows this. The city doesn’t wait to be admired, just as the sea never waits to be gazed upon.

My first steps down the plane stairs at Auckland Airport carried a bitter realisation: I was not travelling; I was being invited. An invitation places a writer in a position that is not always pleasant: being a guest means bearing politeness and curiosity in almost equal measure.

From the bus window carrying me from Auckland International Airport to the city centre, green hills rolled like frozen ocean waves. In the distance, single-storey houses scattered with terracotta roofs, neatly arranged like wooden toys. I watched the rows of pine and pohutukawa trees along the highway. It felt like entering a Nordic fairytale landscape, though I was in Aotearoa, the long white cloud land of the Māori.

The journey passed through Māngere, Flat Bush, and Newmarket, before the bus dropped me off at Symonds Street. Here stood Auckland University of Technology (AUT), where I would undertake a month-long writing residency. As I walked through the campus gates, I recalled a Māori phrase displayed on a campus event banner: He waka eke noa – we are all in the same canoe. A calming phrase for a foreign writer like me, yet it also underscored the complex history of migration in this land.

AUT stands amidst the city’s business district, surrounded by tall office buildings and Asian shops. Yet nestled between them, Victorian stone churches and ancient wooden houses stood their ground, refusing to be erased by glass and steel. Auckland’s history as a port city built in the 1840s by English settlers intertwined with the traces of Māori who had lived here for millennia, creating a cultural landscape in constant negotiation.

On my first day in this city, I walked from Waldorf Apartments to the Auckland University of Technology (AUT) campus, where the residency took place. The late November chill somehow felt soft and gentle on my face. The sidewalks rose and fell, demanding more from my legs, as if Auckland was saying:

Don’t be lazy walking upon me, or you will understand nothing.”

I attended the orientation meeting with other artists. We sat in a circle in Room WG308. The committee introduced the programs we would join during the residency. Mereana Toki, a Māori staff member, opened the gathering with a karakia – a prayer expressing reverence for nature. Her voice flowed softly, vibrating with the earth’s pulse. I bowed my head, imagining her prayer passing through the campus roof, piercing the winter fog, and descending to greet Waitematā Harbour to the north.

The air that day felt damp and bone-chilling. After orientation, I walked to Albert Park. Giant banyan trees shaded old benches. Tui birds called sharply from treetop branches. Beside Queen Victoria’s statue, students picnicked while reading. I was reminded that in this city, public spaces are not mere transit points, but living rooms. Auckland Council even has a public art policy mandating the placement of artworks in parks and sidewalks to ensure its people engage with art, even outside museums.

That first night, I fell asleep still wearing my jacket. Outside the window, a red traffic light at Wakefield Street blinked through the mist. I remembered what a researcher friend from AUT told me before I left: “If you want to write in this city, don’t rush to understand it. Like a flower bud, let it open itself slowly.”

The next morning was the same as always. Patient and warm. I stopped at each red light, watching people wait solemnly until the pedestrian signal turned green. Some listened to music or spoke into earpieces, others read books or simply gazed at the blue sky. No one crossed illegally, even when the road was empty. Here, the law is not prohibition, but a habit born of trust: the trust that breaking it is not bravery, but foolishness.

Auckland does not scream its modernity. Nor does it display an exotic face typical of old colonial cities. It stands simply as itself: calm, clean, concise, green, rejecting all sentimental praise. Every building stands with clear function. Every park is built with clear purpose. There is no room for coquettishness, let alone flaunting historical nostalgia to lure tourists. Auckland is Auckland. And that is enough.

At AUT, I felt like a student returning to class after years of playing outside. The campus is not physically awe-inspiring—no gothic towers or centuries-old quads like European universities—but its atmosphere is what amazes: a productive silence. People walked quickly, eyes fixed forward, carrying laptops or thick books, as if every step was measured by time.

In that silence, often deafening, I heard another voice: the voice of self-doubt. Why come here? To write? To learn? Or merely to confirm that the world out there truly exists, and that I am not merely a fiction written by another writer?

Amidst the intensive classes—demanding us to observe, listen, and write simultaneously—I began to understand one thing. Auckland is not a city to be explored with admiration. It can only be understood through two things: respect for nature and discipline. Just like writing. People may admire writers, but without recognising and loving the environment that nurtured them, and without discipline, that admiration births nothing but useless envy.

One night, I walked alone down Queen Street, the city’s main thoroughfare. The wind carried faint sea scents. Shop lights turned off one by one. At the far end, someone played a bluesy saxophone tune, yet I found no sadness in Auckland. The city is too functional for sorrow. Even that saxophonist, upon finishing his song, simply bowed slightly and rearranged his coins with an expressionless face.

I remembered Saadi again. “A traveller without observation is a bird without wings.” Perhaps this is what sets writers apart from ordinary travellers: we write not to conquer the places we visit, but to conquer the parts of ourselves we have long refused to understand.

“In New Zealand, creativity is born from the pain of perseverance.” That voice—whether from the front of the class or from within my own head—I no longer recall.

In this campus, in those quiet and serious classrooms, I began to conquer each small arrogance I had nurtured. The arrogance that writing is about inspiration. That writing depends on mood. That writing needs no schedule. All those myths crumbled before people who wrote with a monk’s discipline.

The Process of Conquering Oneself

As dusk approached, I walked along Wellesley Street towards Queen Street. Amidst souvenir shops and Turkish kebab restaurants, posters of Once On This Island performed by the Pasifika Theatre community adorned the windows. Pasifika Theatre has been a significant cultural movement in New Zealand since the 1980s, when Pacific Island immigrants began asserting their voices through music, dance, and drama. Oscar Kightley, for instance, is a prominent name pioneering contemporary Pasifika theatre by writing stories about the Samoan diaspora’s life in Auckland.

The thick glass walls of AUT’s WG building reflected the winter sun in a blinding brightness. I stood inside a small theatre room on the ground floor, staring at the folding chairs arranged in a circle around the wooden stage. That day’s Writing and Directing Theatre class was led by a playwright and theatre director who has worked for decades in New Zealand’s performing arts scene (Ah, I can’t recall the name of the mentor: a man in his forties with short white hair had sharp eyes but a gentle voice). He began the class by asking us to write one honest sentence about ourselves, then read it aloud. I wrote: I am afraid of my own silence. My voice trembled as I read. He looked at me for a long moment before saying,

“That’s where theatre begins: from your silence, not your words.”

That sentence echoed within me the entire walk home.

Theatre in this country has evolved not only as performance art but also as a space of political, environmental, and cultural expression. In the 1970s, when the Māori Renaissance movement arose, theatre became a medium to assert indigenous identity under cultural colonialism’s pressures. Take Rowley Habib, for instance, whose 1976 play Death of the Land depicted the government’s seizure of Māori land, establishing theatre as a medium of resistance.

In class, students were told to write scenes without thinking of audiences or markets.

“Write it as if no one will ever see the roses that you always water in the morning,” he said. “Only you and the roses!” The concept felt alien to me, who was used to writing with readers in mind. But here, writing is about honouring what is closest to life: nature, environment, or our beloved roses. Ah. It turns out that writing, for Auckland, is an effort to conquer the egoism of feeling like the most understanding creature. Writing is not just about pouring out thoughts, but about seeking the spring of ideas together. With whom? With what is closest to humans: the universe itself. Oh dear!

After class, I walked through Albert Park. In the distance, the Sky Tower rose among buildings. The wooden benches were filled with elderly people reading or simply closing their eyes under the evening sun. On one bench, two Māori men played guitar and sang softly in their language. I sat a little farther away, writing in my notebook, catching lyrics I did not understand but that radiated a deep sense of belonging to this land.

But what surprised me more were the birds walking and hopping across the park. “Birds walk on foot in Auckland,” I thought the professor was joking when he said that on our first day. Yet, when I saw university officials and students walking along the southern footpath of the park, I immediately remembered Sarita Betschart’s New Zealand Birds: one geographical and exotic consequence of New Zealand being the world’s youngest land is that some native bird species—kiwi, kakapo, takahe, and the world’s largest bird ever, moa—do not use their wings to fly.

Though I saw it differently: these birds chose not to use their wings because they did not need to “ride the wind” to reach their destinations. Yes, even for them, walking was the most pleasant choice to live in tranquillity.

Whether New Zealanders’ habit of walking was inspired by these birds (or vice versa), I don’t know, and it seems unlikely, for it is difficult to find a thread connecting the two in any acceptable context. Nevertheless, walking is one of the simplest matters that shows the real interaction between humans and their environment. I imagine, if in a highly individualistic developed country like New Zealand such habits thrive and become part of urban rhythm, then in Indonesia—with its still-abundant communal warmth—walking should become the cheapest bridge of kinship.

Yet… we always want to be more practical, using “modern progress” as an excuse to live more efficiently, plus… adding weather as a reason, though it is merely an alibi to nurture laziness, indulgence, and… diseases that will creep unnoticed until we realise we can no longer walk.

Bjika, a Māori friend at AUT, once said,

“Here, creativity is the outcome of something the West can hardly fathom. They listen to the land that always speaks. We just need to be silent to hear it. And that, truly, is Eastern. I think New Zealand and Indonesia are two countries with natural beauty that is hard to rival. Surely, this principle is not ‘new’ to your ears, right?”

Those words felt truer as I descended towards Queen Street. Rows of giant oak trees shaded the sidewalk, their leaves falling slowly in the wind. Between the roots creeping onto the pavement, thick green moss grew. Everything seemed still, yet always moved.

“Works are born from the discipline of listening. Including to the voice of nature. You know, that is truly boring. And boredom is suffering. Without it, creativity is mere escapism for the lazy!”

The voice of that 27-year-old man echoed on.

On Queen Street, I boarded the blue CityLink bus to Karangahape Road. This street has been the heart of the city’s alternative culture since the 1960s. Māori and Pasifika writers once occupied old shops here for poetry readings and political discussions. Now, Ethiopian cafes sit beside vegan restaurants and independent bookstores. In a small bookstore, I bought Poūkahangatus by Tayi Tibble, a young Māori poet writing about bodies, land, and colonial history with biting satire and dark humour.

While waiting for my coffee at a cafe next door, I read her poem Vampire:

I am the reflection
in the window of a bus
at 2 a.m.

That poem pierced me, for that was exactly how I felt in this city: a faint reflection in a midnight bus window, present without ever truly belonging. But perhaps that is the true place of a writer: to observe, to record, to understand, without demanding recognition—and to remain faithful.

Those Who Walk with Beauty

There was something different in Auckland at mid-morning, the second week of December 2016. A thin fog drizzled rain like a wordless prayer, guiding our steps—five artists from tropical lands—towards a studio called Mika Haka Foundation. A name marking a meeting point between tradition and future, between the human body and a soul longing to dance, between Māori land and our small steps, hoping somehow to grow something within ourselves.

We got off at May Road. Jay Tewake, a Māori man with long curly hair like flames atop his head, waved at us from afar, hopping in place. As if those approaching him were not merely a group of artists, but joyful news he had long awaited. Perhaps that is how those who live within art see the world—everything that arrives is a noble guest, even the rain they greet with dance.

Jay guided us into his studio, introducing every corner as if introducing his children: computers in the corner, sewing machines, shelves of documents, a large sofa, and a small kitchen with coffee, chocolate, and sugar neatly arranged in transparent jars. Nothing was luxurious in the conventional sense, but there was an aura of grandeur that made the room feel like a small temple of creativity. I recalled Rumi’s words:

“Don’t seek the water, become thirsty so that water may seek you.”

Perhaps Jay was the embodiment of that thirst—his thirst for creation made beauty find him unbidden.

After making us warm drinks, we sat in a circle on the sofa. The workshop began. But truly, for Jay, a workshop was not a formal session to teach others. A workshop was a feast. He was not a teacher, but a host; we were not students, but guests to be welcomed with joy.

Every word he spoke exploded like fireworks in our minds. He spoke of how dancers do not merely dance, actors do not merely act, but must embody creativity itself—understanding everything from lighting, sound design, directing, to production management.

“Because,” he said, eyes sparkling,
“the stage is not just about you, but about the world you want to create with those standing behind the light.”

Jay danced as he explained. He demonstrated dramatic movements, letting out quiet screams, sometimes laughing loudly as if hearing a divine joke only he understood. For those unaccustomed, Jay might appear narcissistic. But to me, he was asserting his essence—that being an artist means bearing the risk of always appearing ‘excessive’ to those who never dare to be more than ordinary.

To ignore the voices and eyes of many, you need one adjective to become yourself: consistent. Consistent in creating because you must. Consistent in your style because it brings you joy. Consistent in activating the eyes and ears of those who do not understand.

“Becoming an artist means bearing the risk of always appearing ‘excessive’ to those who never dare to be more than ordinary.”

Jay Tewake

After lunch cooked by Sharu, our facilitator—a New Zealander of Indian descent—with Asian flavours soothing our homesick tongues, Jay and Kas—his co-facilitator—took us to a nearby hill. The wind lashed hard, slapping our faces with a chill that rattled our bones. But up there, Auckland sprawled below us. Skyscrapers rose like giant fingers, aged green trees lined the streets, and the blue sea lay calming in the distance.

Jay asked us to face the wind when taking photos.

“It makes you look strong,” he laughed, tossing his curls.
“Not because you are against the wind. But because you both make friends.”

At that moment, I understood: ageing is inevitable, but continuing to play is a choice.

Amid the laughter, I heard an unspoken prayer: may we all be as strong as the wind and as humble as the grass dancing with the earth. Jay and Kas seemed to say:

“At this height (read: the cosmos), all of Auckland’s progress appears distant, faint, and small.”

Jay and Kas are reminders that art is not an end. It is a way of walking alongside the environment. Their attitude—humility, generosity, infectious passion, and willingness to keep learning—makes them age with grace, not only on stage but amidst life itself.

Seeking Kaupapa

There are moments in life when the sound of our own laughter feels foreign to our ears. That morning, on the train to Te Pou Theatre, our laughter soared high, crashing into the silent train ceiling. I and eight Indonesian artists from various cities – laughing at our own jokes, at the imaginary awards we planned to distribute at the end of this residency, at the absurdity of life that feels light only when you have friends to laugh with.

However, amidst the commotion, a blonde girl reprimanded us for being too loud for public space. A small scolding, yet enough to bloom embarrassment on our faces. Until the train reached its destination, the nine Indonesians inside sat like strangers forced to be in one carriage: silent, nervous, and restrained.

Apparently, Te Pou Theatre was not just a performance building. It was a wharae nui, the great house of the Māori, which is not only a space but also a soul. When Borny – a tall, large-built actor with trendy cropped hair – picked us up, I felt like I was being taken home to an ancestral house I had never known.

We passed trees unfamiliar to my tropical eyes. Pohutukawa, said Sharu. The tree with blazing red flowers is the silent witness to Aotearoa’s beauty. “Peter Jackson chose New Zealand for Lord of the Rings because the landscapes here need little CGI,” said Sharu, gazing at the distant mountains. As if Middle Earth was not fiction but part of daily reality for those who live alongside the land, water, and sky.

At Te Pou Theatre, their welcome was astonishing. Warm hugs from Amber and Tainui, greetings from Briar with her gentle smile, and Borny laughing at our awkwardness confirmed one thing: that being a host is not about preparing a space but about presenting a heart.

During introductions, Tainui asked us to say our names, origins, mother tongues, and family stories. All in Indonesian. At first, I thought, what does this have to do with a theatre production management training? But the longer it went, the more I realised, they were planting the seed of kaupapa within us.

Kaupapa. That word echoed in my head for days. It is not merely a ‘production vision’ like what I and my colleagues at Benny Institute usually discuss before organizing an event. Koupapa is the why that breathes life into the how and what. The main pillar of a Māori wharae nui meeting house is koupapa. Without it, other pillars merely stand soulless.

Borny called it “beyond professionalism.”

In the West, we know professionalism as the highest work standard.

In Māori culture, professionalism is just a small plank compared to kaupapa, which supports the entire roof. Professionalism is how we work. Kaupapa is why we work.

Borny, Te Phou Theatre

I was reminded of the rumah gadang in Minangkabau, the rumah limas in my homeland South Sumatra. Of the Sundanese bale adat, the Bugis stilt houses, the Javanese joglo, or the Papuan honai. All have a main pillar. Yet have I truly known and understood its presence? I am certain, those pillars are not mere physical structures, but structures of meaning. Surely, there is kaupapa within them.

We were stunned when Amber described the main pillar of a wharae nui as the ‘producer’, the rear pillars as ‘manaaki’ – the personal force that brings peace, and ‘tikanga’ – the grounded yet soulful performance style. A slight migraine struck my head then. Not only because of hunger nearing lunch but because of a bitter realisation: that back home, we often build stages without ever asking why they need to be built.

On the train ride home, our laughter still rang out. Yet a silence grew amidst light chatter about dinner menus and souvenirs. I knew, that silence was not sadness, but a contemplative space. A space to inscribe a question on the walls of the soul: What is your kaupapa, Benn?

The next day, that question grew into a tree. I looked at Amber and Borny, teaching without feeling superior, cultivating knowledge rather than giving it. I looked at myself, at the theatre I have run all this time, at fellow artists back home who keep struggling with minimal productions. I looked at Indonesia, a country with thousands of traditional houses, whose main pillars may be collapsing not because the wood is brittle but because we never have the awareness to ask why it bears everything.

And at that point, I found my small kaupapa:

That being an artist is not about how grand a stage you build, but how deeply you understand the land where you plant your first pillar.

As W.S. Rendra once said, “If we have a dream, we must guard it so it is not killed by frightening realities.”

Koupapa is not just for the Māori. It belongs to all humans who want to live with a why. And perhaps, life is only about one thing: seeking our own kaupapa.

Theatre for All

That night, after the Indonesian Cultural Performance ended and the stage lights dimmed, I walked home holding back a weariness that dripped slowly from my eyelids. There was pride, there was relief, but there was also a bitter feeling that was hard to define. Perhaps this is the feeling of someone who loves theatre yet is never quite satisfied with the audience’s applause. For true theatre always grows offstage, in silence, in the dark rooms of human consciousness untouched by spotlight.

The following dawn, as the sun only revealed its back in the cold, slightly breezy Auckland sky, I dragged my half-jetlagged body to the shower, trying to lift my head under the warm water. I slowly brewed Lahat coffee gifted by a friend in Lubuklinggau, realising that this morning was not merely a transition between sleep and wakefulness, but a space where body and soul must reunite. Outside, New Zealand’s clear sky awaited another story: a workshop at The Auckland Performing Arts Centre (TAPAC).

We set off to seek learning. Along the way, Daz, a man of Spanish (or Portuguese?) descent who drove us, spoke of his involvement in various arts festivals. I interrupted, “Most people love to be on stage, but I do respect those who heartfully work in silence.” Daz smiled faintly. I recalled Khalil Gibran’s words, “Work is love made visible.” Perhaps he works with an invisible love, but that is what makes him great.

TAPAC was founded in 2003, said Margareth-Mary Hollins, or Imim, the bright-eyed woman who is its artistic director. She guided us through space after space: a studio with transparent glass walls that could open to the green lawn outside becoming a stage, a 14×14 metre portable black box, and a lighting area with iron stairs that seemed to lead viewers to divine heights. I gazed at the entire place, at the imaginations once woven there, at the traces of actors’ bodies dripping sweat and tears for performances. It felt like beholding a museum of ideas.

Imim spoke of TAPAC’s hard-fought journey, of how it collaborated with the Museum of Transport and Technology (MOTAT) and Auckland Zoo not merely to beg funds but to build marketing synergy. “They don’t give us money. They help us in marketing which is also spending more money to do,” she said, laughing softly. I remembered the Latin proverb: Ars longa, vita brevis – art is long, life is short. TAPAC stands between them, laughing at life’s brevity and celebrating art’s longevity.

That day, we joined the Marvellous Theatre group. Its members were aged 65 to 90. They smiled, looking at us with eyes full of light. In my heart I said: perhaps theatre is truly humanity’s final home to keep itself alive. As they spoke their names with various expressions, tapped their thighs, walked randomly while exchanging eye contact, I saw how aging bodies never lose their playground. Imim explained, “Involving ourselves in arts is not just about performing, also engaging, remembering, and staying alive.” For them, art is not merely a stage, but an effort to remember and keep life dripping like morning dew wetting the Western Springs grass. I wanted to curse out of joy for such profound learning!

“Involving ourselves in arts is not just about performing, also engaging, remembering, and staying alive.”

Imim, Founder TAPAC

I remembered Jacques Lecoq, the French master of physical theatre, who said, “To mime is to awaken memory. Memory of what we have lived, memory of what we have dreamed, memory of what we have imagined.” Mime is the awakening of memory. Those elders mimicked tempo, expressions, even a simulation of a child’s departure for WWII. I once played a boy searching for his mother at the station before leaving for war. When applause closed the session, I looked at the studio ceiling, deeply moved. Is not true theatre a space that unites grand history with personal history, turning them into a fragment refusing to be forgotten?

After lunch, we opened discussions. About Māori haka holding cosmic energy, about lives spread across two continents: Asia and Oceania. Imim looked at me and said, “They have no more to do, Benn. Make them feel appreciated and create a space to make them meaningful. And I present the class!” I gazed into her gentle eyes. In her, theatre was no longer performance but worship. Did not the Prophet Muhammad say, “The best of people are those who are most beneficial to others.” Imim did not advise with words, she advised with her life. “They are not elderly, Benn. They are life itself,” she concluded, before directing us to the next class.

The next session we met Beth Kayes in the children’s drama class. Kids aged 10-14 trained vigorously, performing physical theatre movements demanding body control, expressions, and quick emotional shifts. When Neef, Beth’s female student, performed a monologue as a cancer patient in despair, the studio fell silent. Her voice pierced our hearts. Did not Stanislavski say, “There are no small parts, only small actors.” There is no small role, only actors who belittle their roles. Neef proved the opposite.

Before leaving, we asked about TAPAC’s syllabus. Imim laughed, “The problem in fund-raising has been internationalized. So, just focus on what you do.” I pondered her words. Funding issues are universal, but focusing on our work – this is the principle that grows theatre anywhere. As Goethe said, “Whatever you can do or dream you can, begin it. Boldness has genius, power, and magic in it.”

On the way home, I gazed at Auckland’s sky. Evening crawled slowly, flaunting white clouds like cotton. In the passenger seat, my eyes grew heavy. I imagined the bed in my apartment, imagined Lubuklinggau, imagined small performances in city corners under makeshift lighting. Then Daz’s voice broke my reverie, “We’ll meet again on Thursday!” I turned and smiled. This world is a stage, I thought. But its stage is not in the savannah. Life writes its own scripts; nature is not merely a property but an actor that never forgets its lines; and we earn praise from the results of mimicry.

Lessons in Planting Prejudice

I stared at that poster for a long time on the front glass of Q Theatre, Queen Street. Men with athletic bodies, heavy makeup, and white thongs exuded an aura I had never seen in the small alleys of my birthplace. Auckland, Saturday dusk. Cold wind pierced my sweater layers, piercing the prejudices I quietly nurtured.

I remembered Sharu. The Indian woman called “mommy” by many friends for her gentleness, the bringer of hot coffee and theatre tickets, ensuring no pork in our rice, and preparing soft drinks when wine dominated the dinner table. She, our facilitator, was like an oasis in the desert of scepticism: proving that cross-faith, cross-country compassion is not journalistic illusion. That night, she waited for us to watch a theatre performance at Q Theatre. She bought us the tickets, as she bought many other “accesses” for us to understand the world and grow ourselves.

To be honest, that erotic poster sparked anxiety. I was unaccustomed to public nudity, to bodies as objects and subjects simultaneously. I was still rigid, carrying the morality of my homeland where bodies and lust are boxed into black and white. But in Auckland, what I saw instead challenged me to laugh at my own prejudice. Do we not often hide sanctity behind fabric, while within we are naked and bleeding?

In that theatre seat, we watched Silent Night – a monologue by an elderly woman on a lonely Christmas Eve. The stage light shone on Yvette Parsons. She sat staring at the floor, in a fragile English living room full of silence. There was no eroticism there. Only an aging body eaten by forgetfulness, aging with solitude, aging with Christmas lights blinking with monotonous loyalty. I held my breath as Parsons portrayed her character’s dementia with black comedy, making us laugh bitterly before that laughter melted into tears pooling in our eyes. The girl beside me shed silent tears. There, I learned to re-evaluate. “Don’t judge the book by its cover,” they say. But who truly practises it?

I recalled Te Papa Museum in Wellington, the day I stood before the massive sperm whale skeleton stretched out in a white room. The museum guard said, “He died old, not stranded. The sea returned him in peace.” Those bones looked at me silently, teaching: in this world, there is no futility. Even death can become a museum visited daily by humans. So too with prejudice: if I can uncover it, it transforms into knowledge.

The next Thursday, I returned to Q Theatre for a production management class. James Wilson, CEO of Q Theatre, awaited us. I looked into his eyes, seeking traces of power from a major theatre owner. What I found instead was the gaze of a father longing for home. In his slide presentation, before speaking of show statistics and thousands of audiences, he displayed photos of his family, his house, and his Kiwi wife. 

“Art practitioners must be close to beauty and liberating yet enriching things,” he said with a smile. “What can rival nature’s beauty? Family, period!” he emphasised.

What can rival nature’s beauty? Family, period!“

James Wilson, CEO Q Theatre

I recalled TAPAC, where Margareth-Mary Hollins – Imim – led theatre classes for the elderly. How she called us by name, asked us to tap our thighs, recite tempo counts, and slip in simple messages: Involving ourselves in arts is not just about performing, also engaging, remembering, and staying alive. I remembered Beth Kayes, the physical theatre mentor guiding Asian and Māori children to portray a cancer patient with breathtaking acting. There, I learned that theatre is not about the play. It is about enlivening oneself, building confidence, and accepting the body as an endless text to interpret.

Theatre, apparently, is not only for the young. Nor only for intellectuals busy interpreting Brecht and Artaud. It belongs to all: the elderly wanting to feel useful in their twilight years, migrant children building identities, or café workers who become lighting crew at night. As James said, “Q Theatre is not merely a theatre company, but a management nurturing the arts and cultural ecosystem in Auckland.” I looked at the lighting panel that could be adjusted to mimic evening skies, dawn, or starless nights. Is not life like a stage where we can set its light and darkness?

Oh, life is only as wide as the knowledge and prejudice we plant within it. Suddenly I remembered Al-Jahiz. The 9th-century Basran poet and scientist wrote in his Kitab al-Hayawan, “Knowledge is like food, the more you consume it, the hungrier you become for it.”

So here I am, during a five-hour transit at Sydney Airport, writing this small myth to take home after a refreshing journey in that great green land called Zealand, satiating the hunger for meaning, before tomorrow births new prejudices I hope to swiftly transform into new knowledge. And as that boarding call echoed through the waiting room, I felt ever more indebted to those friends I should have smiled at – for they regularly gave me food to rejoice and hot coffee to quench thirst – with creativity itself:

the thing closest to myself.
First, family.
And still first: the universe itself. (*)

Auckland–Sydney, 2016

Note: The Indonesian version of this essay is “Auckland: Seperti Alam, Kreativitas Itu Hijau”.